Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

The stranger yawned, and his shirt sparkled so it nearly blinded Bramin. "I am called by many names." He chuckled. "Some even I am too polite to speak. I am Loki, first father of lies, thief of Brisingamen , evil companion of Odin, slanderer and cheat of the gods, and father of the Fenris Wolf."

Bramin's scowl wilted. His throat went dry, and he swallowed several times before attempting speech. "A god? But why:?"

"Did you mean your threats, Hatespawn?" Loki frowned accusingly. "Or were they the idle ram- blings of self-pity? Decide quickly. I don't waste time with fools."

Anger blazed anew. Bramin's fists clenched so tightly his fingernails bit red welts in the palms. Though sorely embittered, he chose his words with care. "I never speak idly. I will cause the downfall of man."

The corners of Loki's mouth twitched upward, and his voice lilted. "And the gods as well if you serve my cause."

Bramin started. "Gods have enlisted the aid of high claw Dragonrank. But I am only jade. Why me?"

"Because, Hatespawn." Loki's inflection almost made the title sound pleasant. "You will rise quickly through the ranks. Already the master prepares your staff for garnet. And:" The god leaned casually against the stone wall. "You take your swordplay as seriously as your magic. I've use of that."

Bramin focused on the shimmering patterns of Loki's shirt. "It will still take time," he said sullenly.

"I've plenty of it." Loki grinned wickedly. "And so have you. It would be wise for us both to learn patience."

Bramin scowled, saying nothing.

Loki continued. "Save your vengeance. I've something for you to remember our bargain in the meantime." The god bowed his head and his golden hair fell about his cheeks like waterfalls, obscuring his face. His hands crossed before him, fingers spread. Slowly, he drew his hands apart as he uttered sharp, harsh syllables of summoning.

Loki's fingers curled. Suddenly, his wrists flicked outward. A globe of blackness winked into place before him, marred only by the silver lines of sorcery from Loki's shirt and Bramin's aura. The ball stretched to a rod-like shape and dropped in to Loki's hands. It was a sword.

Loki raised his head. "Take it."

Bramin bit his lower lip. Hesitantly, he took a step forward and met Loki's eyes. They were chill blue, with the same contempt as the men of Forste -Mar. Anger made the half-breed more confident. He strode forward and seized the sword.

Its sheath was carved ebony. Its hilt was split leather-wrapped steel studded with fire opals, and it fit Bramin's hand comfortably. With a quick pull, he freed the blade, slim and silver, polished so fine its glow mocked enchantments. Near its hilt, runes flickered, effused with red light. For a moment, their meaning was clear to him. Then they muddled to obscurity and his memory of them as well. Bramin muttered a spell in frustration, but the writings remained just beyond com- prehension. "What does it say?" he demanded, hating his inability.

Loki smiled. "It's the sword's name, Helblindi. And its purpose. Your vengeance begins when the writings become clear to you. Know only that men will flee from your blade, and the braver the man, the more he must fear it."

" Helblindi." Bramin raised his brows in question. "Isn't that the name of another god?"

"Very perceptive, Hellspawn. Very perceptive." As suddenly as he had arrived, Loki was gone. All that remained was a rumbling of laughter which echoed between the walls.

Dragonslayer

"For those whom God to ruin has designed, he fits for fate, and first destroys their mind."

– Dryden, The Hind and the Panther

Death hung like an omnipresent shadow over the fire base at Aku Nanh, Vietnam. A wave of heat rustled a circle of thirty grass huts and drummed against the quonset of messhall and infirmary. It carried the reek of burning excrement but no relief from the broiling sun.

Inside a shelter of wood frame and bamboo, a corporal slammed his cards on the table, and Al Larson looked up from his book.

"Four jacks." A grin split the corporal's owlish face as he raked in a tidy sum of cash.

"Shit," said Jamie Fisher, a streetwise black from south Philadelphia. "Big Man knows rank, eh, blood?" He glanced teasingly at Tom Dragelin who had been kneeling on the floor for the last quarter hour. Larson awaited Dragelin's inevitable retort, but the boy only continued his prayer.

"Throw in a word for me." Gavin Smith gath-ered the cards with a gesture of annoyance. "I'm losing."

Dragelin loosed a purse-lipped grunt of disapproval. Larson swung his leg over the side of his bunk. "Won't help. You really want to win, learn to deal off the bottom of the deck like Steve." He gestured at the corporal.

The room fell silent. The corporal's dark eyes went cold as he glared at Larson.

"What you readin ', Al? How to Win Friends?" Fisher picked his teeth with the corner of a card.

Gavin rose. He looked at the book in Larson's hand and laughed. "It's a text book. We're stuck in hell, and he's readin ' a goddamn text book."

"Hey, this is major theology." Larson set the book aside. "Christianity's mixed up. It's fine for people at home, but what good does it do us? What good did it do Danny?"

"Stop!" The corporal's single word was a threat.

Larson's eyes burned as he fought tears. Though only twenty, he was the oldest of the group except for the corporal.

Dragelin turned toward the wall.

Gavin dealt the cards. "We're dodgin ' bullets while Danny's in heaven havin ' tea with God. Come on, let's finish the game."

"Wait. Hear me out." Larson ran a hand through the tangled growth of his blond hair. "What's the fundamental teaching of Christianity?"

Fisher lit a cigarette. "Do unto others."

"Peace, brotherhood, and the word of God," called Dragelin from the corner.

"Exactly." Larson smiled as Dragelin stepped into his well-prepared trap. "How much of that do you see here?"

Gavin picked up his cards, swore, and slapped them to the table. "I got a piece just yesterday."

"We got ourself a brotherhood right here," added Fisher.

Gavin finished. "And Tom'll pass God's word, won't you, buddy?" He laughed.

Larson spoke over the snickers. "We're worshiping a peace god during war. Doesn't work. The Vikings had some real war gods. Get a load of this." He raised the book and read aloud. " 'Stir war!' cried Odin. 'Set men at each other's throats. Whether they wish it or not, have men rip one another to pieces. And when they lay steeped in their blood, have them rise to fight again.' "

Dragelin crossed himself.

The corporal scowled, hand over his cards.

" Fuckin '-A, man," said Fisher. "You're crazy."

"What's your point?" asked Gavin, obviously unimpressed.

For effect, Larson stood to deliver his philosophy. "Odin signified wisdom in Norse mythology. He wasn't even their war god. The real war gods helped their side in battle. That's what we need. Not some pansy who lets people smack both cheeks."

The corporal gathered the cards with a frown. "Ten o'clock, time for patrol. Draw. Lowest two on point."

The five men grew grave as each slipped a card from the deck. Larson, frowned at his three. The others displayed their draws. Gavin flipped his six. "Your war gods didn't help us much. You and me play target."

Larson forced humor around the lump growing in his throat. "On the contrary. What could please a war god more than placing his follower in the most dangerous position. " He donned his helmet and gripped his M-16. "Sorry about what I said, Steve."

The corporal waved a hand. Everything was forgiven before a patrol.

Al Larson and Gavin Smith left the hut first and stepped into the withering heat of afternoon. A football hit the ground before them with a thud, and Larson started. Immediately, he cursed himself. Wariness was an asset on a sniper hunt, but hyperarousal could prove worse than none at all. Larson took several deep breaths, hefted the ball, and tossed it to a grinning, sandy-haired corpsman.